


Call Me Lestrade, I Guess

by OmalleyMeetsTibbs



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Greg cheats on his wife, M/M, Multi, POV Greg, POV Greg Lestrade, They figure it out in the end, johnlockstrade - Freeform, why sherlock won't call greg by his first name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:00:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29639874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmalleyMeetsTibbs/pseuds/OmalleyMeetsTibbs
Summary: Sherlock and Greg's relationship is complicated. Greg had an affair with Sherlock, but it ended poorly. Now, Sherlock won't remember Greg's name for the life of him. When John enters the scene, things begin to shift.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 31





	Call Me Lestrade, I Guess

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to the lovely [AnneCumberbatch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneCumberbatch/pseuds/AnneCumberbatch) for beta-ing!

“Sherlock, I can’t... I can’t keep doing this!” Greg yells at the man swaying on his feet in front of him.

Even through the haze of whatever drug he is on this time, Sherlock’s gaze pierces deeply into Greg’s own before his tongue sends out perfectly placed lashes. “You're not the one doing this. I am. It’s my body, my life. You don’t have to ‘keep doing this’.” He gestured around him. “You have a wife who's cheating on you while you use me to cheat on her. And you have two _lovely_ children you can pop off home too. You have your job, thanks to me. Although, your own brother doesn’t want you coming to his engagement party, so I guess there _is_ one thing you ‘can’t keep doing’. Be an involved brother, but you already weren’t doing that, so I don’t understand the point of stopping something you hadn’t even started.”

Sherlock’s eyes squint at the brief shock Greg shows before he can school it. _Goddamn him_ , Greg thinks.

“You didn’t even know he proposed, did you?”

Clenching his fists to his sides, Greg glares hard at Sherlock and growls, “You’re a right bastard. A right fucking prick. I don’t even know what I saw in you, but I can’t keep doing this. We’re done.” He snatches his keys from the table and twists off the copy for Sherlock’s flat. Greg hurls the key at Sherlock, turns around, and grabs the doorknob. He can feel Sherlock’s gaze boring holes into his back like lasers. It was like the man had x-ray vision straight to his heart. Resigned, he says in a gruff voice, “I’ll get the rest of my stuff later. Collect it all and put it in a box for me, won’t you.”

Sherlock scoffs, and Greg slams the door shut on his way out.

Shoulders slumping, Greg leans against the door and lets the air whoosh out of his lungs, fighting back the tears that threaten to fall. _Goddamn him and his stupid drugs—no, not just the drugs. Damn his lying, his deductions, just… Damn him._ He swipes away the excess tears pooling in his eyes with furious fingers.

He loved him, loves him, really. How could he not? Sherlock is brilliant and gorgeous and can be so caring and kind when he wants to be. Waking up with him in the mornings had been some of Greg’s favorite moments—soft and graceful, waiting for the laser-sharp intelligence to kick into gear. Watching the shift from sleeping to wakefulness was always a gorgeous moment, the two sides of Sherlock that he loved for different reasons but just the same.

But the bastard can’t tell him why he is lashing out, hurting, doing drugs, can’t trust him, and Greg knows when he isn’t wanted. For god's sake, he’s got a cheating wife! And Sherlock doesn’t want him, that’s for sure.

With a shake of his head, Greg gathers up his crumbling strength and pushes away from the wall to start the long trek to the home where he isn’t wanted either.

* * *

A few months later, Greg receives confirmation from Mycroft that Sherlock is out of rehab and keeping up with his sobriety. _Thank god for that_ , Greg muses. He’s had a case come up that he can’t make heads nor tails of and really needs Sherlock’s help. Even though they haven’t seen each other since the night he stormed out (Sherlock had informed him that he tossed out his stuff instead, so there was no need to pick it up. _Bastard_ ), Greg knows that Sherlock can figure this out. Catching a criminal is more important than being uncomfortable around each other. Anyway, he and Kathy are reconciled, figuring things out, and trying to move past the whole both-of-us-having-affairs thing. They are even in couple’s counseling.

Feeling confident he can handle the situation, Greg texts Sherlock and asks him to meet at the crime scene. A terse “K” is his only reply. 

When Sherlock arrives, Greg can feel the frosty ice pouring off of Sherlock like he is liquid nitrogen. Greg receives a laser glare as he strides up to greet Sherlock.

“Hey, thanks for coming,” Greg offers.

Sherlock only averts his gaze and demands, “Show me where, Giles.”

That trips Greg up. _Giles? What in the…_ Shaking his head, unwilling to let Sherlock derail his focus, Greg leads him under the tape and to the scene. As soon as he is in sight of the body, Sherlock glances around and spews off his rapid-fire deductions, leaving Greg to scramble and pick up the threads of thought.

As the consulting detective whirls his long, dark coat away towards the main road, he says, “Even a child could have figured this out. I thought you were smarter, Graham. I overestimated you. I won’t make that mistake again.”

The words sting like a slap to the face, and before Greg can recover, Sherlock is gone.

_At least we have a lead in the investigation now_ , he thinks grimly. Then, he texts Sherlock.

**Thank you for your help. But call me Lestrade, for god’s sake, if you can’t manage Greg.** ****

* * *

The next case, Greg goes to pick up Sherlock from Baker Street himself. But the man has company over and decides to meet him at the address, Lauriston Gardens. Well, that was better luck at least.

When the lanky git arrives, he’s brought the someone along with him. Greg tries to get an idea of who the man with the cane is, but Sherlock only responds with a “He’s with me.” It’s clear they are together in some way—he was at the flat earlier. What Greg doesn’t understand is why he is at _his_ bloody crime scene.

Rolling his eyes, he lets it go because he needs to be quick about using Sherlock’s help. Greg could get in a lot of trouble, and he really doesn’t want to add this to his plate. But he needs the man, so Greg puts up with it.

The man that Sherlock brought with him actually seems to be more of an assistant than anything else, so at least there is that. Greg still fights against some lingering jealousy. If he is honest with himself, he probably always will a bit. But the odd thing is, this… assistant seems to actually _like_ Sherlock, and at least he follows the rules, covering up with the suit and booties and all that. It might do Sherlock some good to have someone like this in his life.

It’s when Sherlock disappears into the night yelling something about pink that Greg realizes the git avoided using his name at all.

Once the crime scene is cleared, Greg finds himself wondering about this doctor man Sherlock found. That—and the niggling comments about a pink suitcase keep rattling around in his brain. He decides to give it a little time before he stages a drugs bust in Sherlock’s flat to do some digging around. After all, if Greg waits a bit, Sherlock will probably have found the evidence they need by then.

It’s during the drugs bust that Greg starts to feel a bit off-kilter about the whole situation. When Sherlock and the doctor come back into the flat, it’s clear that Sherlock cares what his new… friend?—John—thinks and that John knows next to nothing of the man he’s involved with.

Despite the territorial feeling Greg has for Sherlock, John seems like an alright bloke. Upstanding even. And the fact he is willing to follow and assist Sherlock? Well, he can’t begrudge Sherlock that, no matter what his feelings on the matter may be. It’s not like he suddenly stopped caring for the eccentric man.

When Sherlock lifts his sleeve, Greg can’t help but think it’s adorable Sherlock attempts to prove he’s clean by the nicotine patches on his arm—as if Greg doesn’t know that method had never proven anything when it came to Sherlock’s sobriety. Greg shows his matching set, and it breaks his heart just a little to be that close to the warmth of bare skin and not touch it.

Then, in a blur of activity, Sherlock is gone, leaving them all wondering what had just happened.

Greg huffs in frustration, missing the man and annoyed about the case. “Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?”

Not expecting a response, Greg is startled when the doctor replies, “You know him better than I do.”

“I’ve known him for five years and no, I don’t,” he says shrugging on his coat again.

The question he is hoping won’t come, comes. “So why do you put up with him?”

Greg huffs again, this time solely over the man in question. “Because I’m desperate, that’s why.” After a brief pause, he adds, “And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we’re very, very lucky, he might even be a _good_ one.”

He hopes that is enough to convince the doctor to stick around; he’s heard enough shit from the force today, and Greg really doesn’t want to scare off someone that might actually make Sherlock better, happy.

Even if that someone isn’t him anymore.

* * *

Over the next few months, John and Greg meet up regularly for pints—and to allow John to vent a bit about Sherlock. Leaving body parts in the fridge and doing crazy experiments in the flat. In these times, Greg can’t help a pang of jealousy, of loss, sting through him. It’s only knowing that he and his wife are doing better that helps soothe some of the sting away.

And John is good for Sherlock. Brings down his ego a bit with the blog. Helps him seem, _be_ , more human. It sounds like John is even helping the menace stop smoking, though the nicotine patches would probably stay around. It makes Greg happy to hear that Sherlock seems happy. It really does. Or at least it should, shouldn’t it? So, he tells himself it does. Especially with a man like John. He _is_ quite an honorable and handsome man if anyone were to ask Greg, which they wouldn’t.

He’s glad they found each other. But that doesn’t help the jealousy from rearing its head every once in a while. He’ll figure it out. He has to. For Sherlock and John. For them to be happy.

And, yes for Kathy to be happy, too.

* * *

Around October, Greg starts to get suspicious of Kathy again, but he ignores it. Reminds himself that that is all in the past, and he is just being paranoid because of that past. They are better, now. Trying.

That all gets blown to bits come Christmas time, though.

John invites Greg for the newly instated annual Christmas party at Baker Street, and since Sherlock has been civil enough to him recently, Greg accepts. It seems like it could be a bit of fun anyway, and Kathy has to do some last-minute work before they leave for Dorset in the morning.

But it is just like Sherlock to break the news of his cheating wife right before their family vacation. _Goddamn it_ , he really had been hoping it wasn’t true. Greg honestly can’t tell if Sherlock said that to rile him up or if he did it out of some twisted sense of goodwill—to be nice, to not let it go on longer than necessary.

He decides he is going to assume the best of… his wife. Right. He should believe his wife. Shouldn’t he?

The revelation and corresponding internal debate take the fun right out of his evening. Greg knows he’ll start watching more carefully to see whom to believe, his gut telling him it’s Sherlock.

And with John’s influence, Greg really does wonder if Sherlock was trying to help him out in a poor situation.

_Damn it._

* * *

A few months into the whole divorce process, Greg decides to take off someplace warm, sunny, relaxing. Someplace the exact opposite of his current London life, with the grey skies, dreary company, and stress at both home and work. Someplace like Cadíz, the French Riviera, or Croatia, or Italy. Basically, anywhere not here.

The chance to skive off for a week or two finally comes about a month later, just as they wrap up a case. The paperwork is done, and things seem almost suspiciously calm at work. Greg calls Sally into his office to see if something fishy is going on. When she informs him she felt the same, they decide it must be the strange lack of work they are experiencing. Greg won’t look a gift horse in the mouth, so he makes sure she has everything under control and puts in his holiday request.

Only a few days into the trip, Greg’s phone rings. He picks up without thinking or glancing at the caller ID. He regrets that as soon as he hears the voice on the other end.

Mycroft.

“Hello, Detective Inspector. I do hope you are enjoying your holiday.”

“Mmm. What do you want, Mycroft?” Greg sincerely hopes this is somehow a social call but knows it’s unlikely.

“My brother and Doctor John Watson seem to have stumbled upon a case they shouldn’t have. I would very much appreciate it if you would check in on them and keep them out of too much trouble.”

Greg stifles a groan and drops his head back, staring up at the sky. “What have they done, now?”

“They have absconded with my ID and have forced their way into Baskerville, a government facility I wish had escaped their notice.”

“Jesus… Seriously, Mycroft? And you are calling me why? Don’t you have minions for this sort of thing?”

Greg can practically see Mycroft staring at his nails, putting on an air of boredom. “I would prefer to keep this incident, what is the phrase people use nowadays? Oh yes. On the DL.”

Greg bites his lips, barely restraining a hearty laugh. Hearing the phrase come from Mycroft instead of one of his kids is absurd, but he keeps his composure.

“Alright, then. But you owe me another week off after this.”

“Certainly, Inspector. You shall receive your itinerary in your rooms shortly.” The line disconnects without a goodbye.

_Well, so much for a relaxing holiday_ , Greg thinks.

Within the day, he is in Devonshire, checking into a quaint little bed and breakfast, when he runs into the two men. Sherlock does not look pleased to see him. Once he realizes that Mycroft sent Greg, Sherlock turns nasty.

“One mention of Baskerville and he sends down my handler to spy on me, incognito. Is that what you are calling yourself, ‘Greg’?”

The look on his face almost makes it seem that he really has forgotten. Maybe he has. Maybe he deleted it.

That realization strikes sharply into a place in his heart he has been trying his hardest to board up and forget. 

* * *

The divorce is official, and Kathy is no longer in his life. He has moved out into a flat that the boys can visit and got away from everything having to do with her. Except that he damn well couldn’t get her out of his head. It’s like she had formed a foxhole, burrowing in deep and releasing grenades of memories and self-hatred whenever she felt like it.

It’s hell.

He calls up John Watson hoping to go with him for a pint. John really is a good bloke after all, and being easy on the eyes doesn’t make matters worse. If anything, it might help keep Kathy at bay.

After a few rounds of whiskey and beer, the topic of conversation has turned from who is going to win the world’s cup to ranting about his ex to exchanging stories most people would find grotesque but they find hilarious. Greg is right in the peak of his story, slurring his words with his drink in the air, John no longer quite in focus as he was before.

“...when he stepped _right_ in it. Johnny boy, you should have seen his face. The bastard was up to his ankle in the decompromi… decomposed body bits thing!” Greg howls with laughter as tears start to stream down his face. The waterworks seem to come whenever he’s had a few or more—happy, sad, or otherwise. He’ll take happy tears any day of the week.

But John isn’t laughing. A quizzical look has taken residence on his face, and Greg can’t help but want to kiss the wrinkle off his brow. _Where the hell did that come from?_ he wonders before shaking his head to focus on John.

“John, mate. You alright?”

“Why can’t Sherlock ever get your name right?” John asks, the furrow of his brow deepening.

The non-sequitur confuses Greg for a second as he attempts to follow the bunny trail that led them here. He can’t. The white rabbit is nowhere in sight. Deciding it doesn’t matter anyway, Greg takes a deep breath before gauging what to tell John or even how much he knows. 

“Well, it’s a bit of a longer story. But before I get into it, what do you know of Sherlock’s… hist-... hist-... past?” Greg hiccups through the last half of the question.

John takes a deep draft of what is left of this pint. “I know about the drugs and the rehab, but not much else I’m afraid.”

Greg puts down his glass and runs his fingers over the smooth texture, giving himself some time to think of what to say and hopefully sober up a smidgen.

“Er… well. I’m not quite sure what you and Sherlock are, and I don’t want to put my foot where it doesn’t belong… wait. Nevermind, you know what I mean. Anyway, well. Sherlock and I had an affair. It was a long time ago, and it ended badly... really badly to be honest. It was because of the drugs and he kept bloody lying about it. I was also still with Kathy at the time. And it’s not something I’m proud of, but I really do care about him. I didn’t mean to hurt him like I did, but I’m not sure I can say the same for him. But he deleted my name, or he didn’t and he pretends so to hurt me. Either way, it’s a load of shite, and it hurts.”

When Greg finishes his monologue, he picks up his drink and finishes it, avoiding John’s gaze. He can’t look at him. Not after explaining that, how horrible he was, probably still is. A hand falls on his shoulder.

“Greg.”

He drags his eyes to face John and finds compassion, acceptance. It hurts more than the scorn he expects. He deserves scorn. His eyes dart away again, unable to forgive himself, let alone accept John’s.

“Hey, mate. It’s fine. Well. It’s not, but I get it. And Sherlock… well, Sherlock and I are sort of together now, and he’s trying, Greg. He cares about you still. Remember Christmas?”

Greg nods, still focused on the amber-colored liquid beading at the bottom of his glass.

“Yeah. I know you know him pretty well, so you must know that he was trying. In his bollocksed up way, but he was.”

Looking at John without meeting his full gaze, Greg asks, “Yeah?”

“Yeah, mate. We care about you. Both of us. And I’m thankful to you for giving him, and me, the work. I don’t think we would have survived, either of us, without you.”

The pain in his chest lifts a little at that, and a smirk forms on his lips. “Does this mean I can get my name back?”

John leans his head back and laughs, patting him on the shoulder. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He winks. John _winks_ at him.

After that, John closes their tab, and they head their separate ways: John back to Sherlock and Greg to his empty flat.

* * *

Greg wakes the next morning regretting doing so.

The light streaming through the window is painful. The sound of his fridge humming is painful. The blood rushing through his head is painful. Thinking is painful. A deep groan escapes him, and he realizes his throat scratches as if he’d drank gravel instead of whiskey.

Water. He needs water. And maybe another drink.

When his phone buzzes again, he knows what woke him into this terrible world. Grabbing the device to turn it off, to _make it stop,_ he notices the name in the notification. Sherlock. _Goddamn him_ , Greg curses to himself and looks at the time. Seven in the morning. Seven in the goddamn morning. No wonder he feels like shit, especially after a night like that.

As he is about to ignore the message and find himself a glass of water and some paracetamol, another text notification comes through that just says, “Please.”

His breath catches, and his heart skips a beat or three. Sherlock never says please. Thumbing open the other messages, Greg reads them, worrying about the worst.

What he finds instead is a request to “meet up”—whatever that means in Sherlockian. Confused, he agrees but only at a decent hour, which, by the way, means after time for a decent breakfast, water, and a shower. They decide to meet for lunch at a pub between their two flats.

The entire time he is getting ready, Greg’s nerves start to get the better of him, building up to the point where he has taken to fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves and running a hand through this hair repeatedly. He’s honestly a bit worried that he is in for a rake over the coals after spilling what he did last night to John. But how was he to know that it wasn’t common knowledge? If Sherlock had been keeping this from John, then Greg went and bollocksed it all up last night. John would have probably gone home frustrated at Sherlock’s deception, and Greg would be the wrench in their relationship.

Which means, Sherlock would be coming to take that back out on Greg. God, what did he get himself into?

Sitting at a table tucked into the corner of the cozy pub, Greg orders a pint in efforts to bring his anxieties under control and steel himself for the coming tirade. It wouldn’t do well to have all his tells in place for Sherlock to see, even if Sherlock would be able to deduce it anyway.

When he does walk in, long coat and perfectly mussed curls, Greg feels both a jolt of nervous excitement and a pervasive calm spread through him. He still can’t understand how the man can elicit such a reaction from him, but he does and always has.

Greg waves him over to the table, and Sherlock slips gracefully into the seat across from him. As usual, Sherlock dives straight to the point.

“Lestrade, I’m… sorry. I know that isn’t something I normally say unless forced. But last night when John came home, quite sloshed if I may say so, he informed me that you two had had a… chat. About us.” Sherlock’s eyes dart away and back to Greg’s, a sense of imploring exuding from them. “I’m not angry at you for telling him, so don’t worry about that—I know you are—but I am angry. It’s taken John to help me realize how angry and why. I… I loved you, Greg. I don’t think I ever told you that because I don’t think I even rightfully knew. But I did, and I was… hurting. You were still with that cheating wife of yours, and—as you know well—I am, as John would say, pants at relationships. That’s why I turned to drugs. They helped hide the fact that I was in love with someone who could never love me back, could never be with me fully, and never wanted to be with just me. And I don’t blame you for that. But, I couldn’t tell you that at the time, which is the reason for all the lying… and the yelling.”

Greg realizes that he had been holding his breath since Sherlock had said, “I loved you.” His mind swirls trying to take in the deluge of information, rewriting everything that happened in their relationship and since then with this new piece of knowledge overlapped.

It explains so much. And nothing at all.

Sherlock glares at him. “You don’t have to gape at me like that, you know.” Greg’s mouth closes with a click before he pinches his nose, trying to understand.

“You… you loved me?” Greg asks incredulously.

Sherlock’s brow furrows. “That’s what I said. You know I hate repeating myself.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just trying to understand here, Sherlock. But you’re telling me that the reason we broke up, the drugs, the lying, the fights, all of it, was because you loved me?”

Sherlock squirms in his seat. “Yes.”

Leaning back, Greg braces his hands against the table and lets out a deep breath. “Well, fuck me. I did, too.” He runs his hands through his hair as he realizes all the potential they had lost in their lack of communication. “Guess it just wasn’t right for us.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen at the revelation. But, with the shake of his head, Sherlock agrees. “No. At the time, I don’t think it was.”

“I’m sorry for hurting you, Sherlock. I really am. I was working up the nerves to ask for a divorce when I found out about the drugs.”

Sherlock’s eyes slide shut, and he nods. “I understand. I’m sorry, too. I... we were so close, weren’t we? To having what we wanted. If I had just… well, as I said before, I’m pants at relationships. I had no idea, no hope, that you could even have felt that for me. I guess this time, I underestimated you.”

When their eyes meet again, Greg finds understanding, acceptance, forgiveness, respect, and… _is there a bit of hope in his eyes as well?_ Greg dismisses the thought and allows a sense of relief to fill him, having the whole relationship explained a bit more. He relaxes into the moment, the space, between them now and tries to find a new beginning for them. Picking up his pint, he asks, “So how are things with you and John?”

Sherlock gives him a mild glare.

“What? He said as much. And he’s a fine bloke. Handsome, too. Don’t want you doing anything to screw that up for either of you. I like him.”

Sherlock’s glare deepens, and Greg rolls his eyes at the obvious jealousy.

“Not like that, you git. I’m not planning on taking him from you. Though… do you know if he has a brother?” Greg winks at Sherlock over his glass. It’s when Sherlock’s eyes twinkle that Greg realizes his mistake.

“No, no. I don’t need you to set me up, Sherlock. Please, leave it. Forget I said anything.”

“It’s fine, Lestrade. Just a passing idea is all,” Sherlock says, waving his hand through the air. He stands up and begins to walk away.

Startled, Greg jumps up and grabs his arm, stopping him. “I didn’t mean to make you upset. Please, don’t leave. I liked where this was going, us being—I don’t know—friends again?”

Placing his palm over Greg’s on his arm, Sherlock says, “Greg, trust me. I just have something I need to do. Everything is fine.”

Greg’s eyes fall to the hand covering his, the sound of his own name still ringing through his mind. It’s the first time Sherlock has said his name since they were together. It must be fine. With a deep breath, Greg nods and gives a small squeeze to the warm, solid arm beneath his palm and lets go. “Alright. I’ll talk with you later?” He looks up into Sherlock’s gaze, hope in his heart.

“Most definitely,” Sherlock says with a smile before giving a short nod and turning towards the door. Greg watches him go, then sits back down to finish his meal. Today did not go the way he thought it was going to.

It went so much better.

* * *

That night, Greg is back at his flat, lounging on his couch watching the telly, when his phone rings. Fumbling for it in his pocket, he almost misses the call. When he picks up, Sherlock’s deep voice sounds through the speaker.

“We have a proposition for you.”

It takes a moment for the words to process. “We?”

Greg can hear Sherlock huff and John chuckle before John answers, “You’re on speaker, Greg. But to answer your question, yes, we.”

* * *

A few months later finds Greg heading home from work after stopping to pick up some Indian take-away. He had sent Sherlock and John on their way after they gave their statements. They had been dripping wet from a dip in the Thames, and the look on John’s face told Greg that there was quite a storm brewing for Sherlock. Greg did not want to be in range for that explosion.

Coming up to the familiar door of 221B, Greg shifts the bags to one hand and pulls out his key with the other, already hearing the yelling drift down from the window above. _God, that must have been a long time coming,_ Greg thinks as he braces himself for whatever he may find.

He shuffles inside and closes the door behind him. Mrs. Hudson pops her head around her door and gives him a concerned look that holds a hint of warning. “He’s been at it for almost half an hour, Greg.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll handle it.” He hurries up the stairs and pauses with a hand on the knob to straighten his spine and prepare for the worst before heading inside.

As soon as he steps inside, two sets of eyes whirl to him.

“Thank god, you’re home,” Sherlock practically whines.

At the same time, John yells, “You have to help me, Greg. He just won’t admit how dangerous that was!”

Greg takes a moment to let the silence settle and take in the scene before him. They’ve showered and changed, and there is a fire going in the hearth. They handled the essentials at least. Removing his jacket, Greg meanders to the kitchen to plate up their food. John and Sherlock follow a bit behind, cowed slightly by Greg’s silence, giving him space.

_Good_ , he thinks.

His presence in the flat brings all the rolling emotions down to a simmer. Maybe they could talk better with some food in their systems and some more level heads.

As he hands them each of their plates, he gives them each a kiss on the cheek before complaining, “Hello, Greg. I hope the paperwork you had to finish up for us wasn’t too difficult. Thanks for taking care of that and letting us go home early.”

Properly chastised, John and Sherlock both mumble a thanks. John squeezes Greg’s arm while Sherlock presses a gentle kiss on his cheek in return.

“Come on, then. To the couch with you. After a day like today, I think we all need a bit of a cuddle and some warm food.”

Sherlock and John move to the couch, carefully avoiding each other, and sit down at opposite ends. Greg sits down in the middle and places his food on the coffee table. Wrapping an arm around each of them, Greg drags Sherlock and John closer to him until he has each thigh pressed up against one of theirs.

“That’s better. Now. Food first. Then talk.”

Corresponding eye rolls meet him from either side, but they acquiesce and settle into eating. Once they have some food in their systems, Greg starts up the conversation, using the meal as a buffer to keep emotions cool and slow them down.

“Now John, you and I both know what Sherlock did today was bloody stupid…” Sherlock tries to protest, but Greg cuts him off. “And we also know that he wouldn’t be Sherlock if he didn’t attempt to give us heart attacks once every couple of months.” John sits up a little straighter, feeling vindicated, and Sherlock slumps, pushing the curry around his plate. “But John, that doesn’t mean you can rag on him like that. I know you are doing it because you care and you were scared shitless tonight. I was too when I heard about it, but he’s an adult. He has the right to make stupid, reckless descisions.”

It’s John’s turn to look a bit sheepish. Turning to Sherlock, Greg asks, “You do get it, don’t you? Why it makes us both so upset when you do things like that?

At the small furrow in Sherlock’s brow and eyes darting between Greg’s face and John’s, Greg realizes he doesn’t. Nudging John, Greg shifts on the couch so they can both face Sherlock.

“You really don’t know?” John asks, reaching across Greg to grab Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock stares at their clasped fingers, and Greg adds his to the mix.

“Hey, Sherlock, look at us,” Greg urges with a knuckle under Sherlock’s chin. When he has Sherlock’s attention on them, Greg says, “I think John has something he wants to say.”

Sherlock’s eyes dart to the man behind him, focusing intently on John. A swell of fondness aches in Greg’s chest. He’ll have to remind Sherlock of his own sentiments after this.

“Sherlock, I love you. You must know that. And it terrifies me to think of you hurt or gone, especially when I could have protected you.”

Greg can hear the waver in John’s voice and feel the fierceness radiating off him. It warms Greg’s back, the heat of it.

“And I know I’ve said it before, but it was in past tense. I want you to know that I do love you, Sherlock.” When Greg speaks, Sherlock's piercing gaze falls onto him. Greg can see the wheels spinning, spinning, and grinding to a halt behind those eyes. A warm hand falls on Greg’s shoulder as John presses up against his back, scooting them all closer together.

John’s nose nuzzles behind his ear as he whispers with a soft chuckle, “I’m afraid we might have broken him.”

With a quick turn, Greg presses a kiss to John’s lips and murmurs against them, “I love you, too, you know—” he turns back to face Sherlock “—but I do think you might be right.” Sherlock is still staring at both of them, frozen in place.

“Alright now, love, snap out of it. You’re scaring us a bit.”

As if John’s words release the veil separating Sherlock from the world, he comes back to life in a sudden surge forward, wrapping them both in his long arms and squeezing them tight.

No more words will be spoken tonight, they can tell. Only touches, kisses, mouths and bodies reaffirming they are all alive, breathing, and together. Sherlock will be more careful with his transport, John will try to yell less, and Greg will try to be more honest instead of assuming. They won’t get it right, but they will try because this is what they want, what works for them—the three of them—together against the rest of the world.


End file.
